The novel ‘Echoes from the past’ started out as a short story I wrote about 30 years ago, titled ‘The birthday’.
My idea was to take a normal person out of their comfort zone and led on a short but very frightening journey to a place where a surprise birthday party had been arranged.
Thus the very large man with a scar and a red tie was created.
So was the friend with the limousine who worked as a pilot.
So were the two women, Wendy and Angelina, who were Flight Attendants that the pilot friend asked to join the conspiracy.
I was going to rework the short story, then about ten pages long, into something a little more.
And like all re-writes, especially those I have anything to do with, it turned into a novel.
There was motivation. I had told some colleagues at the place where I worked at the time that I liked writing, and they wanted a sample. I was going to give them the re-worked short story. Instead, I gave them ‘Echoes from the past’
Originally it was not set anywhere in particular.
But when considering a location, I had, at the time, recently been to New York in December, and visited Brooklyn and Queens, as well as a lot of New York itself. We were there for New Years, and it was an experience I’ll never forget.
One evening we were out late, and finished up in Brooklyn Heights, near the waterfront, and there was rain and snow, it was cold and wet, and there were apartment buildings shimmering in the street light, and I thought, this is the place where my main character will live.
It had a very spooky atmosphere, the sort where ghosts would not be unexpected. I felt more than one shiver go up and down my spine in the few minutes I was there.
I had taken notes, as I always do, of everywhere we went so I had a ready supply of locations I could use, changing the names in some cases.
Fifth Avenue near the Rockefeller center is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.
The original main character was a shy and man of few friends, hence not expecting the surprise party. I enhanced that shyness into purposely lonely because of an issue from his past that leaves him always looking over his shoulder and ready to move on at the slightest hint of trouble. No friends, no relationships, just a very low profile.
Then I thought, what if he breaks the cardinal rule, and begins a relationship?
But it is also as much an exploration of a damaged soul, as it is the search for a normal life, without having any idea what normal was, and how the understanding of one person can sometimes make all the difference in what we may think or feel.
We as authors always like to see two little words in every review, page turner.
Alas, sometimes they’re not, but usually this applied to non fiction simple because they’re reference books. Then another two words apply: boat anchor.
The good stuff is usually over the page.
Page in this instance refers to a leaf in a book, which generally has many pages.
Then the is a page boy, not what you’d find lurking around these days but were more common in days past, but refers to a boy in training to become a knight, or an errand boy for a nobleman.
These days a page boy opens doors and runs messages in a hotel.
Another variation is being paged over the P.A. system, always a major cause of embarrassment because you and everyone else thinks your in trouble.
Of course, before there were mobile phones, there were pagers, and sometimes in the deathly silence of the classroom, it went off. Definitely not advisable to have one on you if you are trying to sneak up on someone. Same goes for the modern equivalent, the mobile phone.
For the person who uses a word processor, you are familiar with pages, and having the software generate page numbers, of course, not for the title page, and a different numbering for other pages like an index, before the story starts.
Complicated? Sometimes.
And many years ago a boss of mine often used to say I needed to turn over a new page, and it did make much sense to me. That might have been because I was young and stupid. But, later on I realised what he was really saying was that I needed to turn over a new leaf.
Kind of strange, but then a lot saying are.
And did I?
Eventually.
And just to end on a high note, Paige is also the name of a girl, I think, and one I’ve decided to use in a story.
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, a place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.
With the improved weather, they settle into a routine, she is getting comfortable with Henry being around, and he is finally getting out of the shipboard routine, and becoming more relaxed, though still wary of making a mistake.
They go for walks along the beach, and gradually, a form of intimacy takes place, holding hands, at first with gloves on.
Then in a totally unscripted moment from out of left field, they kiss. It just happens ‘in the moment’. He apologises, and she just smiles.
Given what she has escaped from, it is a sublime moment that gives her the opportunity, against all odds, that it was possible, one day, she could be happy.
It leads to another unscripted moment, but this time a kiss with more meaning behind it.
Henry doesn’t know how to process this event but goes with the flow. Out of the confines of the town, on a short road trip, they admit they like each other and to not have any expectations that it might go anywhere.
But the ugly truth of her background raises its head with the conversation turning to the future, and Henry puts his foot in it.
As an unexpected result of that feeling he had ruined everything; a hug that, for him, seemed to last a lifetime.
I remember that first kiss, and the moment that led to it, and it left me with butterflies and dread, that eventually it would all fall apart. It was a passing moment in time, and it taught me one very valuable lesson, leave expectations out of it. And that flush of first love, there is nothing like it.
It’s one thing to put a date in your diary; it’s something else to remember it’s there.
And then it’s something else entirely if you lose the device the calendar is on.
Of course, in this modern day and age, there’s this thing called the cloud, and any and all of your devices can connect to it, so really, there is no excuse.
Is there?
It was one of those things, you know, four inseparable friends at university, all going through the ups and downs of life, love, learning, and success and failure. Two boys, Jake Sever and me, Albert Mendall, and two girls, Gillian Rogers and Melanie Monk.
We had lived separately, together, in relationships, and in the end, as friends. After graduation, there was the party, the celebration, the reminisces, and the parting. There were no romantic attachments, at least not one I was aware of, and each of us had applied for and got jobs in various parts of the country.
We all promised to catch up once we were settled, and all put an entry in their diaries to meet at the Empire State Building on Christmas Eve in two years’ time, a nod to Gillian’s favourite film, and just in case we lost track of each other.
That final farewell was, for me, poignant, particularly with Gillian. We had one of those on-again-off-again romances, it started out well enough but Gillian had always thought there had to be more, and as each succeeding romance of hers failed, for one reason or another, it brought us back together. The last, she believed she had found the one, and when she left, with Derek, the one, I felt more than a little sad. For me, she was the one, and it would be a long time before I found another.
Fast forward a year, and I had had sporadic communications from the others, all pursuing their dreams, their lives taking turns they could never have predicted. Jake has literally married the boss’s daughter, the company he chose to work for a family-owned business. Melanie had gone from being a forensic accountant to a footloose and fancy-free nanny doing the tour of Europe with a wealthy American family with three young children. It was she said the only way to finance her travel bug. Gillian had married the man of her dreams, Derek, and was living in a castle in Scotland.
That left me.
Of the four, I was the one with the most nebulous plans, having taken the first opportunity that presented itself. I could do anything, but what I really wanted was to be a journalist, a stepping stone to becoming a writer, and then, if the planets lined up, a best-selling author. That may have been possible if Gillian and I had remained together because she was my muse and fiercest critic. Without her, that dream had lost its shine.
Now I was languishing at my desk, working for a weekly magazine that was one of the last of its kind in the American Midwest, on the outskirts of Cedar Rapids. I liked the place the moment I arrived, but there had always been a big if hanging over the job and staying there, so I had diversified into becoming an English Literature teacher part-time at first, but now looking very much like my new vocation.
I’d just finished a feature story on the gradual disappearance of reading and writing skills in schools when I realised, I was running late for class. I dropped the story on the editor’s desk, ran out the door, jumped in the car, and sped off, thinking that I would make it with five minutes to spare.
That was, until another driver, also running late, failed to stop at a T intersection, and just seeing the oncoming car out of the corner of my eye and gave me no time to react. I didn’t even have time to say a prayer.
When I woke, I was in unfamiliar surroundings, though the combination of disinfectant, pale-coloured walls, and curtains surrounding the bed were all a dead giveaway I was in the hospital.
I didn’t know why, but a cursory glance showed no visible signs of injury, so I had to wonder if it was something else, like a heart problem. I had palpitations recently, the first time since I had been much younger. It had not been serious then, but the doctors had not ruled out, then, it might return one day. Had that day come?
Inevitably, my waking brought visitors, a doctor, and a nurse.
And not surprisingly it was the first question I was expecting, virtually a cliche, asked by the doctor, “How are you feeling?”
I answered it with a question, “How should I feel?”
He looked almost amused. “OK. Let me ask you another question, and this time, an honest answer, not another question. What is your name?”
An honest answer? Did I have more than one name? That should be easy, except… I couldn’t remember, or was it I didn’t know? Surely everyone knew their name. Or was that the reason her asked, that he knew that I didn’t know or that I could not remember.
He could see that I was having trouble.
“I should know the answer to that question, shouldn’t I.”
“Normally I would expect in normal circumstances you would, but yours are not normal circumstances. You were in a very bad car accident, so bad that we had to put you into an induced coma. It was supposed to be a week, two at the most. Instead, it’s turned out to be nearly a year. To be honest we had no idea when or if you would come out, and when you did, how you would be when we woke you, but loss of memory is probably the best outcome we could have hoped for. Your name, by the way, is Albert Mendall.”
“Then what else don’t I know?”
“Most likely for the past three weeks, once you started waking, it’s been a rather intense time for you. Chances are you don’t remember any of it, but it’s fairly standard for long-term coma patients to take time to recover. We kept you sedated for the last three days, gradually allowing you more wake time, and come to terms with your recovery. All in all, this is the outcome we hoped for. It could have been very, very different. You’ve lost a lot of weight, and you’re going to need a month or two before you will be able to move around. Other than that, you will have time to work on those memories. What is your last memory?”
“Going to work, I think. Going somewhere in a car, that much I can remember.”
“Family?”
“Nothing.”
“Friends”
“I knew people at University, faces but not names. I know what I studied, Literature, but beyond that, not a lot.”
“You were a teacher, in fact, one of your colleagues has been dropping by every week just in case. She’s here now if you’d like to see her?”
“It might jog something, but I hope she isn’t offended if I don’t remember her.”
“I’m sure she won’t be. We’ve kept her apprised of your recovery.”
It made me think perhaps there had been more between us, but I couldn’t remember working as a teacher let alone anyone that I may have worked with. It was going to be interesting if it sparked anything.
Eileen Westmacott did not look like a schoolteacher. When she put her head in the door and asked if it was alright to come in, I thought she was looking for someone else. She looked more like a model, or actress though I had no idea why I thought that.
She came in, crossed to the bed and sat in the chair, perhaps giving me the time to examine her and see if I could remember. If I had known her, I would remember her. I didn’t.
“How are you? Oh, sorry. Typical silly question to ask in a hospital.”
She had a shy manner and put her hand to her mouth as if she wanted to put the words back in. Her manner and her smile lit up the room.
“The doctors tell me I’m fine, except that I have no idea who I am, other than the name Albert Mendall. I’m very sorry I can’t remember you because I feel as though I should. I know this is a dumb question, but were we…”
“We were very good friends, Al, and things were going in the right direction. We were going to have dinner the night of your accident and talk about our future together. I was on the verge of taking a role in a television series.”
“Did you…”
“Yes. I managed that and came back every week to see how you were. Tiring, but in the end it satisfied my desire to be an actress, and harsh enough to make me realise it requires someone more hardened and single-minded than me to pursue it. Teaching ratty teenagers is far easier I can tell you.”
“Did you give it up?”
“No. Just took a break from it, and wait until the series is aired, successfully or a failure. It seems failures are far more common than we’re led to believe. Besides, you gave me a reason to come back home.” She reached out and took my hand in hers.
It was like an electric shock and sent a wave of feelings through me. And a few memories surfaced.
“Oh, God! I did something to hurt you, didn’t I? I can see you, crying. It was me, wasn’t it, and a woman named Gillian.”
“What do you remember?”
“Fragments. I said something really stupid, but I can’t remember anything else, except I hurt you, and you cried. I’m sorry. I rather think now, before all this I must have been some sort of bastard. You said we were going to talk about it the night of the accident.”
“It’s more complicated than that. You were not a bastard. I wanted to talk to you about the acting role, and you said that it might be better if I pursued my dream and put us on hold. You’d just got a letter from Gillian, an old University friend, who obviously meant a great deal to you, and you were going to see her, and I said a few things I regret now, mostly because I think I was the reason why you had the accident. If we had not argued the night before, you would not have stayed up to finish that article for the paper, you were tired, and … well, you know the rest.”
“I don’t remember anything about her other than her name. If she and I were meant to be together, she would be with me?” Another memory popped into my head. “She never seemed to be satisfied and went off with a guy called Derek something or other.”
“Whom she divorced. It was the reason for the letter. She came to see you, I brought her here, and she stayed for a few days, then left. I sent her an update each month but never got a reply. I can send a message to her and tell her you’re awake if you like.”
“What would be the point. I don’t remember her. I don’t remember anything, other than it seems I was horrible to you, and I was pining after a girl I could never be with.”
“I think you are being a little harsh on yourself.”
“I’m so sorry. Perhaps you should come back tomorrow when I’ve had some rest if those memories have surfaced, maybe some others will.”,
She stood. I saw a tear escape one eye and trickle down her cheek.
“You were the only one who believed in me, Al. The only one, and for that, I will always be grateful. And despite what fragments of memory you have, you were never horrible to me, you were probably the only one who was totally honest.” She leaned over and kissed my forehead. “I’m glad your back, and if there’s anything you need, just let me know.”
It was not as if after a year of being ‘absent’, you can leap out of bed and do a quick circuit of the hospital corridors. It took three days to work my way from the bed to a wheelchair, the most time taken disconnecting me for all the monitoring, and IV tubes.
It took another week to get out of the room and venture further afield. The physio visited me every day, working on a regimen that might see me on my feet in a month. A month?
No more memories came, not in the next three weeks, and neither did Eileen. While it made me feel sad, I had to expect it because all I could remember was not being the person she expected me to be, or that’s what I assumed.
The other thing was that I didn’t call her. I went to, several times, but hadn’t I disappointed her? What would be the point of doing it again?
Exactly a month to the day, another woman put her head in the door and asked if she could come in.
I thought she was another physio, or perhaps the hospital psychiatrist because I was sure I would be having issues with missing the world for a whole year.
She sat down in the same chair Eileen had sat in.
But her opening gambit wasn’t to ask me how I was. Instead, she asked, “Do you know who I am?”
First off, the face was not familiar, and yet I knew it should be.
Then I remembered Eileen asking if she should send Gillian word of my walking.
“You must be Gillian.”
“You remember me?”
“No. I think we were at university together.
“We were. We lived together, off and on, for most of that time. In the end, we had an argument, split up, and you came here.”
“You got married, didn’t you? I have had a couple of flashes, one being you married a man called Derek. I didn’t remember the argument. How is Derek?”
“Dead, I hope. I can state with some authority, the grass isn’t greener on the other side. He wasn’t you.”
“Well, sadly, I don’t remember who he was, and even worse I don’t remember who I am now. I’ve been told I was a teacher and a part-time journalist. It’s been a year, they probably think I left town or died. What I feel like right now is like I died and come back with a clean slate. One thing I do know, is I don’t deserve it.”
“There is nothing you remember about us?”
“Nothing. Did I hurt you? I’ve been having a few memories where I don’t think I was a very nice person.”
“No. You were always the kindest and most forgiving person I knew. I’m sorry that you have ended up like this.” She stood. “I should not have come. I wish you well Albert.”
Then she was gone.
Two weeks later the doctors decided I could go home.
It appears I had a home, a small two-bedroom house in a quiet street, bought from the proceeds of a story, well, several stories, I had sold to a magazine, and on the back of it a sizable advance from a book publisher.
In that year in limbo, my book had been published and I wasn’t quite the number one bestselling author yet, but my career, I was told, was only just beginning.
Something I did remember … the follow-up novel to the first.
That was the first surprise.
When the nurse wheeled me out into the pick-up area, Eileen was waiting, leaning against a rather expensive European import.
“Your car awaits, literally. It is your car. The insurance company replaced the one that was wrecked in the accident. Good thing it was this type of car, it basically saved your life.”
“Where have you been?”
“Working out the details of becoming your guardian until you’re back on your feet.”
“I can walk.” I got out of the chair and stood, albeit a little wobbly.
Eileen had come over and taken me by the arm.
“Like I said until you are back on your feet.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to. Besides I had to quit my teaching job. They are making a series two and asked me to come back. With a lot more money.”
“Good for you. How long before the departure?”
“A few months. Problems with the other actors. They all thought it would fail.”
She helped me into the car. It had that new car smell, the one that costs a lot of money.
“By the way,” I said, once she was out in traffic, “I remembered two more things, one which might be of interest to you. The first, you played each one of the seven women characters in my next book, taking my ideas of them and becoming them.”
“Which one did you like the most.”
“The one I had a dream about, Mary-Anne.”
“I should hope so, she is the wife of the character you based on yourself.”
She smiled at the thought.
I would remember that portrayal as long as I live, crash or no crash.
“The second, you were not the cause, directly or indirectly, for my crash. Gillian was. She called me that morning while I was in the car, and when I went to pick the phone up, I dropped it on the floor and took my eyes off the road for just a few seconds. It was a few seconds too long.”
“You distinctly remember that, out of everything else?”
“She came to see me two weeks ago. Perhaps she was looking for the old Albert, the one that took her back every time her romance hit a rock, and then happily left when something new came along. I’d called her the day before and told her I was no longer that person, that I had moved on. I was going to ask you to marry me at that dinner.”
She had a wider smile now. “I know. I found the ring when I was looking for something else. The answer’s yes by the way. While you’ve been on vacation, that’s what we’re going to call your time away, by the way, I moved in and did a little redecorating.”
“Anything else I don’t know about.”
“Probably a zillion things, but the most important, you have a daughter, she’s four months old, and her name is Mary Louise, after both our mothers. How does the first day of the rest of your life feel?
There were tears and no words.
She squeezed my hand. “I know how you feel. We’ll be home soon.”
Or on this side of the world, it’s actually Wednesday morning.
Very, very early in fact.
Very cool too, which is strange for a city near the tropics in early summer. Also, it’s raining for the first time in a month or so, and we really need the rain.
I survived another week, still working on priorities, and the fact I’m juggling too many stories at once. You’d think it was easy by now, to find something that resembles a routine.
First, stick to one story at a time, then
Outline the story, write the chapters, bundle it all up and let it stew in the back of your mind for a few months.
In that time, write the blog, work on the 3,4,5, or is it 6 stories being written as episodes. I wanted to get a feel for what it was like for Charles Dickens all those years ago, writing stories in parts.
Then, after doing that and clearing the mind,
Come back and do the first edit, find all the grammatical errors, fix holes in the plot, and make sure the subplots don’t take over, or minor characters steal the limelight.
It’s where a character mysteriously changed name, went from being a son to a nephew, or an aunt was an aunt from the wrong side of the family. A car that was red is suddenly blue, a man who smokes cigars now hates them, and the Mercedes changed model five times, about the same times as the age of the mother in the story.
Who said art imitates life?
Or was it that I was missing character motivation. The main character was drifting, much like I am, and I realized there was a little of my circumstances coming across to the story. Time to push those thoughts to the curb, and fill him with someone else’s ego.
So they’re fixed. Now it’s the time to cut, slash, and burn.
Back to the blog and episodic stories for another month or so, just to let those new changes swill around.
I thought since it is Winter here, we could do with a breath of fresh air and colour that comes with the change if season
Living in Queensland, Winter never quite seems to be as cold as it is in the southern states, which are closer to Antarctica.
We have had a relatively mild winter this year and I didn’t have to light the fire once, though we did use the reverse cycle sir conditioning.
But, from now the temperature will be rising as well as the humidity and will hang around until April next year.
Normally this would mean that a large proportion of the population would be planning their summer holidays, but with Covid restrictions, we may not be allowed to leave our state, or only visit states that have no or few cases like us, and definitely no overseas travel.
For people who like to travel, this is a bitter pill to swallow, and especially so for all those retirees who have worked all their lives, and decided to wait until retirement to see their own country and the world at large.
To me, the adage ‘don’t put off until tomorrow what you can do today’ seemed appropriate and we decided once the kids were old enough, we would travel far and wide while we could. It was a wise decision because neither of us are as agile as we used to be.
Seems we were the lucky ones.
Now we are content to see our own country which no doubt will be able to manage Covid to the extent that life might return to a form if normal sooner rather that later.
And if it doesn’t, then I have enough to amuse myself at home. I’m sure we are all familiar with the expression ‘spring cleaning’. We have decided to clean house, and do some renovating.
And it’s a surprise when cleaning out those cupboards, drawers, and boxes, the stuff you’ve accumulated over many, many years. Last I heard, we were taking about getting a large skip, so I suspect this culling is going to be savage.
But, just to be clear, no books will be thrown out!
It suits my mood and is bound to affect my writing.
There are days when you write like you feel.
Wet and miserable.
But as a major contradiction, I actually like the rain. The pattering of raindrops on the roof and on the leaves of the foliage outside the window, the droplets running down the glass of the windows.
It has a calming effect
Then there is the wind.
It can have the un-nerving effect, sort of like the wailing of a banshee.
Or a sort of humming sound as it blows through the electricity lines.
Or has the effect, of a cold day, of cutting through your clothes and chilling you to the bone, more so if you are soaking wet.
Or when the wind blows the rain sideways, and you can feel it on your skin like a shower of frozen icicles.
It’s the sort of weather for staying inside, rugged up by the fire with a large cup or mug of hot tea and cookies, reflecting on when the good weather will return.
It reminds me of a set of allegories I read about a long time ago,
Winter – sad
Spring – hope
Summer – happy
Autumn – reflective
Perhaps it is a little early for me to be reflective, because where I live, Autumn is just around the corner.
That first encounter outside the confines of the hotel has shaken him. He realises that he really has no understanding of women and that his first love with Jane had done nothing to prepare him.
It only reinforces the notion that he should simply avoid her where possible.
Yet, over dinner, she tells him her story, not the real story, but close enough to the truth. In doing so, allowing the door to be ajar, she realises this could become complicated very quickly.
And yet, despite her resolution to remain aloof, she is curious. Who is this Henry?
The beach quickly becomes Henry’s thinking place. He ruminates on what a friend on board the ship, Radly, might think of his situation. Radly is a lady’s man and would have swept Michelle off her feet by now.
Michelle reappears, and, curious about him, asks him who he is, those usual questions, where he lives, and what he does.
Why? If she is only there to hide, why get involved?
I had once said that Grand Central Station, in New York, was large enough you could get lost in it. Especially if you were from out of town.
I know, I was from out of town, and though I didn’t quite get lost, back then I had to ask directions to go where I needed to.
It was also an awe-inspiring place, and whenever I had a spare moment, usually at lunchtime, I would go there and just soak in the atmosphere. It was large enough to make a list of places to visit, or find, or get a photograph from some of the more obscure places.
Today, I was just there to work off a temper. Things had gone badly at work, and even though I hadn’t done anything wrong, I still felt bad about it.
I came in the 42nd street entrance and went up to the balcony that overlooked the main concourse. A steady stream of people was coming and going, most purposefully, a few were loitering, and several police officers were attempting to move on a vagrant. It was not the first time.
But one person caught my eye, a young woman who had made a circuit of the hall, looked at nearly every destination board, and appeared to be confused. It was the same as I had felt when I first arrived.
Perhaps I could help.
The problem was, a man approaching a woman from out of left field would have a very creepy vibe to it, so it was probably best left alone.
After another half-hour of watching the world go by, I had finally got past the bad mood and headed back to work. I did a wide sweep of the main concourse, perhaps more for the exercise than anything else, and had reached the clock in the center of the concourse when someone turned suddenly, and I crashed into them.
Not badly, like ending up on the floor, but enough for a minor jolt. Of course, it was my fault because I was in another world at that particular moment.
“Oh, I am sorry.” A woman’s voice, very apologetic.
I was momentarily annoyed, then, when I saw who it was, it passed. It was the lost woman I’d seen earlier.
“No. Not your fault, but mine entirely. I have a habit of wandering around with my mind elsewhere.”
Was it fate that we should meet like this?
I noticed she was looking around, much the same as she had before.
“Can I help you?”
“Perhaps you can. There’s supposed to be a bar that dates back to the prohibition era here somewhere. Campbell’s Apartment, or something like that. I was going to ask…”
“Sure. It’s not that hard to find if you know where it is. I’ll take you.”
It made for a good story, especially when I related it to the grandchildren, because the punch line was, “and that’s how I met your grandmother.”
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 